


To Be By His Side

by starticker



Series: The Prince and the Red Knight [1]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Alternate Universe - Bodyguard, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Awkward Flirting, Bodyguard Keith, Identity Reveal, M/M, Marriage to the Victor, Mentions of Ableism, Mutual Pining, Pining, Prince Shiro, Secret Identity, Sheith Secret Santa 2016, Surprise Kissing, War Aftermath, conflicted feelings, mentions of grief, mentions of parental death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-09
Updated: 2017-01-09
Packaged: 2018-09-15 21:12:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9257444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starticker/pseuds/starticker
Summary: Prince Takashi of Shirogane must marry to inherit the throne, and his spouse must be determined by eligible candidates competing in a series of competitions known as the Royal Games. Complications arise when Shiro's bodyguard, Keith, goes missing weeks before the Games begin, and then again when a mysterious suitor shows up to compete. What has happened to Keith? And who is the Red Knight, the challenger who seems determined not just to win Shiro’s hand but also his heart?





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [amillionsmiles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amillionsmiles/gifts).



> Written for [amillionsmiles](http://amillionsmiles.tumblr.com) for [Sheith Secret Santa 2016](http://sheithsecretsanta2016.tumblr.com/post/152047392390/hello-if-you-love-sheith-and-receiving-gifts)! Sorry it's a little late, but hopefully you enjoy it anyway!
> 
> Also: shout out to [kanazo](http://kanazo.tumblr.com/) for [this art](http://kanazo.tumblr.com/post/153968116770/coughs-blood-im-sorry-for-being-so-cheesy-lol)! Although they didn't realize it, amillionsmiles's idea of prince/bodyguard + their art is the entire reason this fic exists.

There was something coldly practical, Shiro thought wryly, about immediately following a war with a marriage.

“I’m sorry, Prince Takashi,” said his parents’ oldest adviser as he twisted the tail of his shirt anxiously between his hands. “I understand this is not the best time. But, with the mourning period officially over—”

“It’s fine, Edmund,” Shiro interrupted, not needing to hear another word about either mourning or marriage. He’d been expecting this conversation ever since he awoke to the reality of being the last surviving member of the royal family; the only part that surprised him was that it had taken an astonishing two months for the council to remind him of his duty. It showed a sensitivity that he would not have expected, although—if Keith’s quiet snort behind his shoulder was any indication—that might just be wishful thinking on his part.

“All the same, Your Highness…”

Edmund twisted the fabric of his shirt again, seeming to gather courage as he did so. Shiro wondered if he was really that intimidating, that someone who’d known him since he was a child would hesitate to speak in front of him, and then decided he probably was, thanks to the muscle he’d gained and the vicious scar across his face. His decorative arm peeked out from between his sleeve and glove, and the gleam of silver might’ve looked like a concealed knife to someone unused to it…or at least that was what Shiro chose to believe, whenever he shifted and the people around him flinched.

Of the two people who never did, one stood in front of him, and Shiro reminded himself of that when Edmund continued to speak. He owed him enough to listen, even if every word felt like a deep stab into the part of him that still didn’t want to believe his parents were gone.

“I wish it didn’t have to be this way. But the law clearly states that you must be married to assume the throne, and in this time of unrest, we can’t afford to be without a king.” Edmund pulled a rolled scroll from the pocket of his vest and set it gently on the corner of Shiro’s desk. “I’ll leave this here. It’s a list of all the nations who may submit a challenger for the Royal Games. They’ll be informed by our fastest messengers once I leave you; the Games are set for one month from now.”

Shiro frowned at the time line.

“One month? Can we wait that long?”

In truth, he’d expected the challengers to already be on their way, each one of them licking their lips at the prospect of marrying into a kingdom that had managed to maintain its wealth even after two and a half years of war.

“You’re still on bed rest, Your Highness, and something as strenuous as hosting the Royal Games is too much to ask.” Edmund’s brown eyes were sad but sympathetic beneath his bushy white brows, and Shiro heard what he didn’t say. It was a kindness; he’d stalled the proceedings as long as he could.

“Thank you, Edmund.” Shiro looked down at the worn surface of his desk; the last time he’d sat here, his father had been at his shoulder, pointing out the tax districts. The memory was vivid, like it had been only yesterday, and it brought a lump to Shiro’s throat. “If that’s all, I think I’ll go lie down. It’s been a tiring day.”

“Of course, Your Highness.” Edmund bowed and left quickly, closing the door behind him and leaving Shiro and Keith alone in silence.

Everything was still for a moment, and Shiro sensed more than felt Keith’s quick touch at his chair, his palm resting on dark wood while his fingertips barely grazed his shoulder. Shiro wished for a more substantial comfort, Keith’s arms around him in solidarity and love, but he was quick to dismiss the fantasy. When Keith’s touch disappeared soon after, Shiro told himself it was for the best.

It was still a pleasant surprise when Keith rounded the desk to face Shiro head-on, abandoning his usual position guarding Shiro’s back. His lean body looked tense and ready for a fight even though the details of his figure were disguised beneath his thin padded armor, and his eyes glinted with emotion.

“This law,” Keith said with unexpected vehemence as he crossed his arms, “is bullshit.”

Shiro laughed at that, very softly, and looked down so Keith wouldn’t notice that his eyes were slightly wet.

“It works for the most part. This is just an unfortunate set of circumstances.” Shiro gestured to the black clothes that he still wore a solid two weeks after the official mourning period had passed. “My parents have been dead for over a year. It’s just bad luck that I only found out two months ago.”

“Still. If anyone should get to put off marriage because of mourning, it’s the king.”

“I’m not the king yet,” Shiro corrected gently, and it was with a great deal of effort that he made himself grab the scroll Edmund had left behind. It felt heavy in his hand, the parchment thick and weighed down with gold-crusted ink, and when he unrolled it, the sheer number of countries was staggering. If every one of these countries sent a challenger, it would take weeks to get through them all; Shiro wondered if that was the plan, or if the invitations were mostly for show, a sign that the country of Shirogane was once again strong enough to honor its alliances.

Keith, for his part, did not seem impressed, and he dismissed the list with a roll of his eyes. Shiro wished he could do the same.

“I don’t know why you can’t just pick someone and marry them. Or why you have to get married at all—Altea doesn’t have a king.”

“That’s because Princess Allura is also General Allura, and I’d like to meet the person brave enough to call Altea weak for it.” Shiro scanned the names with minimal interest. “Well, that’s one challenger off the list, at least; I don’t think Allura will send anyone.”

“Altea is on the list?”

Shiro didn’t understand why Keith sounded so surprised, but he nodded all the same as he reached for a nearby pen. Scratching out Altea was only mildly satisfying, and it still left a daunting hundred countries behind; he quickly re-rolled the scroll and stashed it inside his desk, hoping he wouldn’t have to look at it again in the coming weeks.

“They’re one of our allies. It would be impolite not to give them the chance to put someone on the throne beside me,” Shiro said. He ignored the choked sound Keith made at the words. “Although, again, I don’t think Allura will try.” He shrugged, trying his best to ignore the ache in his right shoulder, a painful reminder of the weight of metal at his side. “After all, the Altean council is more familiar with my injuries than most. They wouldn’t send someone off to compete for my hand without telling them about it, and that’s sure to change a lot of minds.”

“That,” Keith said, quieter than before, “is also bullshit.”

 _But not wrong_ , neither of them said out loud. Keith might be comfortable ignoring the reality and Shiro was content to let him do so, but that didn’t change the fact that Shiro was far from the prince most people would expect. He needed to remember that if he didn’t want to be disappointed in his future spouse.

“Maybe. But that doesn’t matter right now.” The trip that he’d been considering before Edmund’s arrival seemed a welcome distraction from the future, and Shiro braced himself against the arms of his chair and made to stand, not surprised when Keith rushed to help him to his feet. “We need to check on the Eastern roads; last week’s storm might have washed them out, and I’d like to know if they’re safe to traverse _before_ we start getting foreign visitors.”

“You’re still recovering,” Keith protested, but when Shiro determinedly headed towards the stables, he didn’t try to stop him. “At least let me send a servant to light a fire for your rooms for when you return. You’ll catch a chill otherwise.”

Shiro admitted that it was a logical plan, and so after Keith made sure he was surrounded by a veritable _army_ of guards to counter his absence, Shiro sat down in the hall to wait for his return. He wasn’t very surprised when Keith returned with his coachman as well, and Shiro shot him a fondly exasperated look even as he followed him down the front steps and to the waiting coach.

“I’m not going to collapse, Keith. I promise I can ride a horse.”

“You’re still recovering,” Keith repeated stubbornly, his cheeks tinged pink. “What kind of bodyguard would I be if I let you get hurt because you were careless and overtaxed yourself?”

“You have a point.”

Although Shiro was reluctant to admit it, Keith’s concerns were not unfounded, and the short trip to the Eastern border—only a few hours there and back—proved more tiring than Shiro had expected. After seeing with his own eyes that the road was in fact washed out, he was grateful to return to the quiet inside of the coach and lean his aching head against the wall. Keith’s presence, as always, made him feel safe, and the third time Shiro accidentally dozed against his shoulder only to snap awake in embarrassment, Keith eased his head back down. His hands were careful and lingering, and Shiro closed his eyes in reflex, even as he took the touch as permission to sag against the warm line of Keith’s body.

“There’s no one here to impress, Shiro,” Keith said softly, using the nickname he spoke only when the two of them were alone. “Just rest.”

Shiro didn’t need any further encouragement, and he let the outside world fall away until all that was left was the rocking of the coach and Keith’s shoulder under his cheek.

***

Recovery for Shiro might have been slow, but it wasn’t for the country of Shirogane. Although it often required pushing himself to his limits and going to bed late at night, exhausted to his bones, Shiro managed to stretch the following days beyond measure, and it made a noticeable difference in the state of the country. Roads were repaired, food stores were refilled, and rationing was lifted. Defenses around the central city were set in place once again now that the war had come to an end, and three weeks before the Games were set to begin, open trade and travel between their border countries resumed. Between him and the ten members of his council who had been recovered after the fall of the Galra, they’d managed to condense a year’s worth of recovery into only the few months since Shiro had woken up, and Shiro took pride in that. Even if his weakened state meant that he’d achieved only the bare minimum of what his parents would’ve done in his place, Shiro refused to shirk his duty or let the country crumble because he was too weak to shoulder it.

Keith, of course, did not approve of Shiro’s attempts to work himself to exhaustion, even if years of friendship meant that he understood it. He gave his support by staying with him through it all, a silent presence behind his back during even the most menial of tasks. Although he’d never admit it, Shiro also took comfort in Keith’s prickly nature and unsubtle attempts to help him outside of his official duty. Even though Shiro always refused, Keith regularly extended invitations to spar with him in an attempt to restore Shiro’s confidence from before he’d lost his arm. When those invitations were refused, he let Shiro talk him into playing the games of strategy Shiro’s mother had liked (and that Keith himself hated) until their eyes were sliding shut and propriety slipped just a little. Those were Shiro’s favorite moments: when Keith remembered that Shiro was not just his prince but his friend, and when Shiro let himself wonder what could’ve been if he’d never been a prince at all, bound by his sworn duty to his country. He knew which duty he’d refuse first, given the choice.

Neither of them mentioned the upcoming Royal Games, which was probably why they were both so surprised when the challengers began showing up a full two weeks ahead of schedule. Sixteen challengers in total arrived that first day, all of them bearing extravagant gifts from their home countries and messages from their sovereigns, and all with insincere compliments flowing from their mouths. Shiro wasn't fooled; he understood perfectly what flattery didn't say when they complimented his eyes but their gazes flickered to avoid landing on his obvious scar, or when the bolder men and women marveled at his broad shoulders while never once looking at his silver arm. Shiro had no choice but to greet them and welcome them to his country, but doing so took something out of him that days of rehabilitation and duty did not.

Two days later, the challengers in residence numbered thirty-one, and Keith was livid.

“The invitation was for a month away!” He exploded after the door of the throne room closed behind the most recent arrival, a wisp of a man who’d seemed more fixated on the chain of delicate silver and black opal that hung from Shiro’s shoulders than on any of Shiro’s formal greeting. “They think they can just show up like that?”

“I wouldn’t bar anyone from the kingdom. My parents never did.” Keith was living proof of that, although Shiro took great pains never to bring it up. “Besides, it’s strategic. If any of them go into the first match with my favor, it’ll demoralize the competition.”

Keith’s glare shifted to a look of confusion.

"But that's sneaky and manipulative, and you hate that sort of thing. They’ll never win your attention that way."

"You know that; they don't." Shiro shrugged and removed the circlet from his head. Staring at the ring of silver was a better option than meeting Keith’s gaze just then. "I think they're hoping I'll be flattered."

"Flattered," Keith repeated dully.

Shiro shrugged again, keeping his voice deliberately light as he spun the circlet between his fingers.

“I’m guessing the rumors about my injuries have spread a lot faster than I expected. It’s not important.” He chanced a glance at Keith and his carefully blank expression. “Besides, it’s not like I’m against the token gesture of romance. It would be nice to think that the man or woman I end up marrying actually wanted me for my own merits as well as my crown.” He laughed, almost to himself. “These ones are just bad at pretending.”

Shiro didn’t think Keith would have anything to say to that, but Keith surprised him.

“And you’d want that.” At Shiro’s confused look, he elaborated. “A romance with one of these people. You’d want that.”

Shiro would’ve been lying to say he did, but what he _wanted_ —in short: Keith—was not something that would ever become a reality. Even before the war, Keith had never seemed interested, and that had hardly changed now that Shiro was down one arm and up more scars than he could count. Would Keith get offended on his behalf when others insulted or undervalued him? Certainly. But even if the sky opened up and a greater power changed the rules and allowed entries from Shiro’s home country into the Games for its throne, Keith would never want to be his champion. Friendship was not obligated to cover marriage.

“In theory,” Shiro answered evasively, unable to bring himself to lie directly. “If there was someone I liked.” He glanced down at the circlet again. “But hoping for that is pointless. There’s no guarantee that the person I liked would win.”

“Huh,” Keith said. 

A second quick glance at his face showed him looking baffled, and Shiro could guess why. In all the years they'd known each other, Shiro hadn't often spoken about his future or the marriage of alliance he'd inevitably have to make to become king. Keith probably thought Shiro was like most nobles, only interested in fleeting romance; it would have looked that way from the flirtations he'd engaged in as a teenager, in the months before he'd truly known Keith or suspected what he might be missing from sex and flirtations alone.

Shiro wondered if Keith had noticed when his flings stopped. If he had, he’d never said anything.

"Never mind that," Shiro said, feeling embarrassed. Keith was still staring at him, and when Shiro stood up it felt awkward for reasons that had nothing to do with his still uneasy balance. "Didn't you say the head of the guard wanted to speak to me? We should probably do so before it gets too late."

"Or before another suitor shows up to waste another hour of your time," Keith added, sounding unaccountably annoyed. Shiro didn't think much of it, and they were quiet as they left the room, Keith as ever at his back.

***

It was frantic knocking against his chamber door that woke him, and Shiro was pulled from sleep so suddenly that, for a moment, he forgot where he was. Once he took stock of his surroundings and regained his bearings, he tried to sit up, his arm shaking as he struggled to support himself underneath the weight of his covers. Despite the difficulty, however, he made himself move precisely _because_ it was knocking. If it had been Keith, he would've known to just come in whether Shiro responded or not, and since it wasn't Keith, that meant something terrible had happened. Something urgent. 

Shiro didn't bother with decency, and he answered the door in his nightclothes. The two guards there, Landon and Hervy, immediately flushed upon seeing him with bare legs, but they also stood straighter, undeterred from their mission by the sight of him in private clothes and with one sleeve hanging mostly empty at his side.

"Your Highness," said the older one, Landon. His voice was still pitchy despite his age, or perhaps it was nerves that made his voice crack. "I'm sorry to bother you, my prince, but it's about your personal guard, Mister Keith."

Shiro's mouth went dry, his hand clenching too tight around the door handle as disaster scenarios ran through his mind. Keith injured. Keith dying. The palace once again under attack and war at their gates.

"What about Keith?"

"He's gone."

Of all the scenarios Shiro had imagined, that hadn't been one of them.

"Gone?” Surprise made the word come out in a louder voice than he’d intended, and it all but echoed down the darkened hallway. “What do you mean he’s _gone_?”

Hervy shifted minutely forward in response. "We went to fetch him for the morning patrol, Your Highness, but his bed was empty." She hesitated, her pale eyes darting quickly from side to side. "The head of the guard told us to tell you."

"That doesn't mean anything. He might’ve just been unable to sleep and decided to take a walk." Not even Shiro believed the flimsy explanation; everyone knew that Keith came to stand outside Shiro's chamber door whenever he couldn't sleep, providing an additional body to keep him safe. If they hadn't found him outside before they knocked, restlessness wasn't the cause for his disappearance.

"We searched for him for hours, Prince Takashi, but he's nowhere in the palace,” Hervy said, her voice apologetic. “He must have left sometime before dawn."

The way she put it— _he must have left_ —made Shiro want to shake his head in denial.

"He must have left by force." 

The two guards shook their heads mutely. 

“No one else in the palace is missing, Your Highness, and we haven’t found a breach where an outsider could’ve gotten past our walls.”

"Then was there no note?" Shiro heard the desperation in his own voice, but he didn't know how to stop it. 

"No, Your Highness." Landon sounded not unlike he was comforting a child, and the embarrassment of being coddled was almost enough to shake Shiro from his shock. "Perhaps an urgent matter with his family?"

“That’s not possible. Keith’s family is—” Shiro snapped his mouth closed before he could reveal secrets that weren’t his own, and he took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm. “Never mind. Thank you, Hervy, Landon. Please send a message to the stables; I’d like our fastest horsemen to meet me downstairs as soon as possible.”

They bowed in response, but Shiro didn’t miss their shared look before they left. He could only imagine what the palace gossip would sound like later that day; if Keith had been here, they would’ve tried to predict it together, coming up with more and more outlandish tales to pass the time. In the silence and the dark, the lack of him was like a physical ache, more real with each passing moment, and Shiro couldn’t shake the feeling that every additional second put Keith further out of his life, never to return. 

Even though he hated to do it so early in the morning, he summoned his valet to help him dress, unable to handle the task on his own. After waiting long minutes for his arrival, Shiro decided to forgo his decorative arm in favor of speed. Even if some of the challengers already in residence saw him, he doubted it would make much difference to them, and this was more important than hiding his defects with precious metal and jewels.

Keith wouldn’t have run away without a good reason, Shiro told himself as he hurried through the motions and then downstairs to await the arrival of the riders. He wouldn’t have snuck away in the night unless he’d had no choice. Even if Shiro couldn’t guess at the reason that he had to leave without a word to his friend of many years, he had to have one.

That didn’t make the reality easier to face, in the end. As impossible as it was to believe, Keith was still gone, and when Shiro sent the riders to explore their borders in the hopes of picking up Keith’s trail, he already knew they wouldn’t find him, not within the country.

As impossible as it was to believe, Keith had disappeared.

### 

Keith did not return that week, nor did he return the following week. While there were definitely better ways of measuring the time, Shiro nonetheless found himself unable to prevent his days from returning to this single fact. It was impossible, when he went to sleep with quiet corridors outside his chambers and woke up with nothing but sunlight to greet him, not to think about the fact that Keith had yet to come home.

The riders, however, did, and they came with exactly the news Shiro had expected: they'd found no sign of him, not within their borders. Upon seeing his reaction to the news, they immediately volunteered to go out again, spending more time in the inns and cottages at the edges of the town and country before further moving beyond their borders. Shiro agreed, but his heart remained heavy with doubt. If they found anything, he would be surprised; Keith was too smart to be found if he didn’t wish it.

Through it all, the challengers kept arriving. The morning before the Games were to begin, the participants numbered fifty-one; an impressive number, to be sure, but much less than Shiro had feared when he’d seen the original list. It was both a relief and not to see the schedule of the Games--a mere four days, with a day of rest between each--and know that he would end that week as a married man and a king. In the face of his looming fate, it seemed impossible to be polite, but fortunately, Shiro had had a lot of practice with smiling despite the odds. He appreciated the efforts his parents had gone to in his youth to teach him etiquette, especially when he conversed with the challengers each day, welcomed them to his palace and his country and to eat at his table. Each time, he tried very hard not to think about the fact that Keith likely wouldn’t be at his wedding in any capacity.

In light of all this, it surprised Shiro immensely that he had time to find a favorite among the challengers.

Sir Lance of Veradera didn't look like much with his too-angular face and gangly body, and he’d arrived at the palace the day before with only the barest of luggage and with a single horse. Shiro hadn’t known what to think when he seemed to brag and boast to an almost obnoxious degree, but he was pleasantly surprised when they spoke. When Shiro greeted him the first time, he’d said only two things: how pleased he was to be at the palace, and how honored he was to meet the person who’d led the charge during the Battle of Kerberos. Apparently, even a disastrous battle had its fans, and Shiro had been surprised enough that he’d lost his prepared speech.

“I--thank you for coming. Good luck during the Games,” Shiro said sincerely.

Sir Lance responded with a smile that was blindingly white against his brown skin, and then he’d shaken Shiro’s metal hand rather than bowing over it. It wasn’t exactly the protocol, and Shiro could hear sputtering behind him afterwards, a sure sign that one of the stricter advisors had noticed, but it was welcome all the same. Much like Sir Lance himself, the greeting was friendly rather than formal, and Shiro could make a future with _friendly_...or at least he hoped so.

The night before the Games were set to begin, nine more challengers arrived, clogging up both the entryway and the great hall. Shiro had to resist the urge to close the palace gate in case any more snuck in during the early morning hours, but he settled for sitting stiffly in his chair while they were announced rather than greeting them personally at the doorway as he'd done before. He was sure he made an intimidating picture, sitting on a raised platform high above the crowd and saying nothing, meeting the eyes of those around him only momentarily before he dismissed them with a sip of wine. Nobody came to speak to him for an extended conversation, and for that, he was grateful; intimidating as he might have looked, the truth was that he was just tired, and his shoulders ached.

It wasn't until he heard Edmund's distinctive voice begin announcing the newcomers that Shiro even tried to listen to sounds beyond the crowd, and even then it was only with mild interest until the last name was called.

"And lastly, representing the sovereign nation of Altea: the Red Knight."

Shiro immediately straightened in his chair, curiosity getting the best of him. So, Princess Allura _had_ sent someone; that was a surprise, as was the Red Knight themselves. No other name had been given and no title followed, and over the heads of the crowd, Shiro could just barely make out a slim figure in sparse armor and a blazing red tunic, their face completely obscured by their full helmet. The rest of the room was already tittering over the mystery, and Shiro couldn't help but smile into his glass when he took another sip. No name and no face; if the goal was to stand out and generate talk, they'd done an amazing job with nothing more than a step into the room. It was the highlight of an otherwise dull evening, and Shiro was surprised to find himself almost eager as the remaining challengers shuffled forward to meet him. Although he smiled politely and welcomed each one, it wasn't until the Red Knight was called forward that his smile became more genuine. 

"Thank you for coming. It's always an honor to see a champion of Altea." He held out his right hand, the same as he'd done with the others, wondering if the Red Knight would flinch before reluctantly bowing over his silver arm. About half of the contenders had.

The Red Knight didn't flinch, but they surprised even Shiro when instead of dipping their head and moving on with a token gesture, they instead took his hand in their own and bent to kneel on one knee.

"...Highness," the Red Knight murmured as they pressed a helmeted kiss into the crafted tips of Shiro's fingers. Their voice was deep and rich, but that was not the detail that startled Shiro into silence or kept his heart pounding long after the Red Knight released him and moved back into the excited crowd.

It was that they hadn't said "your highness;" they'd said " _my_ highness."

The words, for Shiro's ears alone, had sounded like a solemn vow.

It wasn’t a mystery Shiro could easily let go, and as soon as the evening’s festivities were called to an end, he sought out Edmund. Since Edmund had welcomed each visitor into the palace before the ball began, he had surely also checked their papers and their country of origin. If anyone had any further clues to the Red Knight’s identity, it would be him.

Unfortunately, what Edmund had was little more than what Shiro already knew.

“He’s some sort of minor baron, Your Highness,” Edmund said, after he got over his shock at Shiro even expressing open interest in one of the challengers. “He wouldn’t give me his name, but he came bearing a letter from Princess Allura herself. He also declined a stay inside the palace, saying he’d be happy to support the local inns instead.”

Either of those things would’ve been odd; both, combined, made the Red Knight sound more like a spectator than a visitor. Who declined the hospitality of the royal family one sought to marry into?

“Do you still have the letter?”

Edmund nodded and retrieved it from his desk, then quickly handed it to Shiro. The letter was tri-folded, no official seal or envelope in sight, but it took only a glance at the writing to know it was Allura who had written it. He’d know that sloppy penmanship anywhere.

 _Shiro_ , it began, using the nickname she’d picked up from Keith during their brief stay in Altea, just weeks after the war ended. Seeing it filled Shiro with equal amounts of amusement and pain: amusement because of the informality after they’d met maybe a dozen times, and pain because it was a reminder that Keith wasn’t there, reading the words over his shoulder.

The letter continued.

_Please take care of the Red Knight. He’s determined to keep his identity a secret, but he will not betray your trust. I am proud to have him represent Altea in Shirogane's Royal Games._

_Signed: Princess Allura, Ruler of Altea_

And that was all. While Shiro normally appreciated Allura’s direct approach to things, it wasn’t helpful just then.

When Shiro flipped the letter, the writing at the top said only “Endorsement for the Baron of Kogane.”

“Kogane.” Shiro racked his mind for a memory. When he came up blank, he shook his head and refolded the letter. “I’ve never heard of that province.”

Edmund didn’t seem concerned about Shiro’s potential memory lapse, which was more comforting than Shiro would’ve expected. He accepted the letter with only a bare shrug, his round shoulders only seeming rounder when he hunched forward to store the letter once again in the stack with the others.

“It may be new. There were several of them created from one of Altea's larger extinct titles after the war ended. Princess Allura awarded them to her most loyal men.”

“So, he’s an Altean soldier.” Shiro tapped a finger against his chin, thinking of the Red Knight’s stature. From what he could gauge despite his armor, Shiro could tell he wasn’t a big man, half a head shorter than Shiro himself and with shoulders not nearly as wide. All the same, he’d stood straight and tall and moved gracefully.

And, Shiro realized, there was something about him that was _familiar_. 

“I’ve met him before.”

Shiro knew it with certainty, although he couldn’t say why.

“Your Highness?”

“Sorry, Edmund.” Shiro smiled to reassure him, but his mind was already elsewhere. “It’s just a feeling I have.”

***

The first game day started earlier than Shiro had hoped, with every challenger in residence rising at dawn and making enough noise to wake an army. Even worse, this was accompanied by the petty squabbling that Shiro remembered from the games he’d seen as a child. While there’d never before been a need for the Royal Games to be called in his lifetime, it was remarkable what the challengers had in common with those who participated in matches with much lower stakes. Namely, how petty they could be about minor things.

First, it was Sir Hameline from Eclar, who took insult about being assigned to the last matches of the day, as though it made any difference.

Then, it was Madame Nicolet of the Seagrass Islands, who was convinced that having a match between two people who used the sword followed by a match between two people who used the spear was cheating. Somehow.

Third, it was Baron Jom from the tiny province of Scistan, who was appalled that there was fighting at all. Apparently their king had failed to mention that getting to the tests of skill on the second day required first winning multiple one-on-one matches in armed combat.

By the time the Games were set to begin, Shiro already had a headache. Unfortunately, being the prince meant he wasn’t allowed to bow out regardless of circumstances, so he gritted his teeth and made the required announcement anyway, wishing them all good luck in their matches. Of the sixty challengers present, only ten seemed to listen to his words; the rest seemed focused on the prize of a kingship, clearly already spending the country’s vast coffers in their minds.

Most of the matches, as a result, did not last long. If it wasn’t for the fact that each challenger was required to complete three matches and there were sixty challengers total, the day's games would have been over by midday. Shiro almost hoped for it; there were a great many things he could be doing with his time that didn’t involve sitting on a hard wooden throne, watching grown men and women scuffle in the dirt and hot sun while he was covered by shade. He’d never been interested in bloodshed for itself, not even when he’d been required to lead an army, and he liked it even less after a year spent with the Galra. In truth, far from being impressed, he felt sick to his stomach every time someone had to be carried from the field. The amount of viciousness that he saw was repulsive, and he didn’t understand why anyone considered this a fair test for the right of kingship; if it had been up to him alone, he would’ve disqualified most of them on grounds of having a poor temperament.

Fortunately for Shiro, in the end, he didn’t have to; those who relied on pure bloodlust to get through their matches were eliminated quickly, and in the end, the fifteen who remained didn’t surprise him. They were the same ones he’d focused on during the introductory period, with Sir Lance and the Red Knight leading as the only ones to win all three of their matches.

It was more of a relief than Shiro expected to declare the winners, and the crowd of spectators laughed when Sir Lance responded with a wink and an arrogant boast. The wink, Shiro noticed, was not directed at him, but at a pretty female challenger who seemed vaguely alarmed by the attention. Flirtatious; Shiro would have to remember that.

The Red Knight said nothing, facing forward, facing _Shiro_ , the entire time he spoke, and leaving as quietly as he’d entered the ring the moment he was finished.

***

It had been the council’s idea to throw a ball at the conclusion of each game day as a way of congratulating the winners and honoring their countries, and while Shiro hadn’t initially been thrilled at the idea, he admitted that it was a smart one. Although there was much that he would rather be doing with his evenings besides providing food and wine while the winners boasted and losers sulked, at least it was a pretty sight that represented his country well. Shiro had to admit that the planners and decorators for the ball had done well in choosing to drape the tables and windows with flowing white or gray fabric, a gentle compliment to silver candlesticks and chandeliers. The overall effect was resplendent without being ostentatious, and it carried the message of wealth and stability. As a bonus, no one had said a word about Shiro continuing to wear black even during this occasion, most likely because his tailor had compromised when he wasn’t looking; now, his usual dour clothes were trimmed in silver, making him look festive rather than severe. When he approached the challengers as part of his duty, their eyes were rarely drawn to his arm. It was, after all, only more silver. 

More than attractive surroundings, though, the ball was...educational, to say the least. If Shiro had been of a military goal that night, he imagined he could have planned an invasion with only the bare details some challengers tossed aside in conversation, and Shiro made note of their names and ranks, careful to keep an eye on which ones had made it through the first game day. For the safety of the country, he couldn’t let anyone so loose-lipped have access to confidential information, and he was sure they’d show their hands on the third day at least, when games of strategy came into play.

If Keith had been there, he would’ve laughed at Shiro gathering information during a ball. Laughed but agreed with the method, even if he would’ve refused to mingle quite as well as Shiro did by drinking glass after glass of too-sweet wine. It made Shiro’s head foggy after only an hour, and he refused to drink anymore, if only to prove to himself that he could manage without Keith reminding him that wine always gave him a sick stomach the following day.

His patience and blending paid off in the end. After two hours of polite conversation and polite congratulations and polite grimaces when no one was looking, Shiro had successfully sorted the challengers in his mind. Most of them fell into two categories: those who were openly after his money and title, and those who were _subtly_ after his money and title. The third group—those who were actually interested in him or at least convincingly pretended to be—was much smaller, and included Sir Lance and maybe half a dozen others, half already eliminated from further games. The fourth and final group—those whose motive was unknown—was not a group at all, since it numbered only one: the Red Knight. Shiro couldn’t understand what to make of him, largely because, out of the sixty challengers who had competed that day, he was the only one who hadn’t yet shown up at the night's ball. If it hadn’t been for his position as one of the clear winners of that day’s games, Shiro would’ve assumed he didn’t want to win at all; he’d certainly made no attempt to speak to Shiro outside of their brief introduction, which seemed odd when considering a prospective betrothal.

It was baffling, and it didn’t get any clearer when the evening wore on and the Red Knight _did_ appear in the doorway, still in his full armor, only to turn and leave a second later.

“What in the world,” Shiro murmured, unwittingly interrupting Lady Nyma from her own boasting about the day’s events.

“Your Highness?” she asked sweetly. Too sweetly—from what Shiro had seen of her fights, deception seemed to be her main weapon and she wielded it well. “Is something the matter?”

“No, nothing.” Shiro smiled with all the charm he could muster as he set his full glass on the tray of a passing server. “But you’ll have to excuse me for a moment. Too much wine.”

She didn’t look happy, but she nodded and turned to the nearest person to resume her conversation, dismissing _him_. Shiro would’ve laughed, but he was too focused on making it through the crowded ballroom before anyone noticed where he was going. He probably drew more than a few curious glances his way, but he couldn't focus on that. He'd never get any answers to the questions that plagued him if the Red Knight disappeared.

Fortunately, when Shiro pushed beyond the guests lingering near the doorway and stepped out onto the terrace, the Red Knight was still there. He looked lost, standing still as he was with his helmet turned towards the garden; he also didn’t seem to notice Shiro coming up behind him, even though Shiro had made no real efforts at walking quietly across the pavement.

When he was only five feet away, Shiro cleared his throat.

"Looking for something?" he asked loudly, deeply amused by the way the Red Knight startled. "Or have you changed your mind?”

The Red Knight turned and bowed his head, the picture of respect.

“Changed my mind about what, Your Highness?”

His voice was still melodic and deep, but now that Shiro’s heart wasn’t pounding hard enough to almost drown out the sound, he thought it sounded artificially so, like the Red Knight was pitching his voice low on purpose. It was hard to tell, though, with the helmet he still wore; Shiro didn’t like the additional mystery.

“Whatever it is you came here for,” Shiro answered, already exasperated by the conversation. “It can’t be connections or alliances; you’ve hardly spoken to anyone since you got here.”

“I’m not here for that.”

“And you’ve hardly spoken a word to me either.” Shiro crossed his arms as best he could, then spoke softly. “Don’t you want to know the state of the treasury?”

Although it was difficult to tell behind the armor, Shiro thought the Red Knight looked offended.

“Prince Sh—Takashi.”

Apparently, he’d been offended enough for his disguise to slip just enough. 

“You were about to say ‘Shiro,’ weren’t you?” The Red Knight said nothing, but Shiro was already nodding to himself. The confirmation was a surprising one; there were only so many places he could’ve heard the nickname, and it had nearly spilled from his lips without thought. “I knew I’d met you before.”

“Of course we’ve met before,” the Red Knight said gruffly, sounding annoyed at having been caught. “Who shows up to marry someone they’ve never met before?”

“At least fifty-nine people, apparently,” Shiro remarked blandly, and he thought he heard the Red Knight chuckle in response, muffled somewhere behind his helmet.

“Well, I’m not one of them,” he said with confidence, before visibly hesitating to continue. “I was there the day you were recovered from the Galra.”

“Were you in the medical wing?” It was entirely possible. Shiro’s bed might have been curtained off from the larger room, but once he’d woken up, he’d heard the sounds of others in pain, others healing. Even with minimal awareness, he’d recognized those sounds. “Did we speak?” They must have, if he was calling him _Shiro_.

The Red Knight nodded.

“Often.”

“I’m sorry; I don’t remember it.” He remembered very little of those early days, in fact, that was not pain or Keith’s face over his, his eyes sparkling with unshed tears of relief. The entire palace could’ve been there just outside his reach, and Shiro wouldn’t have known. He’d barely been aware enough to notice the lack of his arm.

A terrible thought occurred, and Shiro spoke it before he could think better of it. He blamed the wine.

“Were you scarred?” It would explain much. If the Red Knight had been severely injured in battle, Allura would very well consider a barony to reward his sacrifice; depending on the extent of his scars, he might even wish to keep his face covered at all times.

It was also, in light of Shiro’s own injuries, an incredibly rude thing to ask, and he was opening his mouth to apologize when the Red Knight answered.

“Less than you. And I wasn't nearly as handsome as you are anyway.”

The compliment was delivered awkwardly, but it sounded sincere enough that Shiro was startled all the same. He didn’t know what to say, and he was grateful for the night that covered his blush. It had been years since anyone had called him “handsome;” a flirtatious response no longer came automatically. 

They said nothing for several minutes, and it was the Red Knight who broke the silence.

“I’m here to compete. That’s all.”

“I believe you.” Shiro did, now. He still wasn’t entirely sure of his motives or his words, but he was considering moving the Red Knight to group four. Handsome...he’d even sounded like he’d meant it. “Good luck with the rest of the Games.”

“Thank you, Prince Takashi.”

“You can call me Prince Shiro.” Shiro shrugged. “After all, you’ve already done it once.”

***

After the ball ended, Shiro deliberately put the encounter from his mind. It was a necessity; with only one day of rest between each day of Games, Shiro had very limited time to attend to his official duties, and he could hardly afford to be distracted by a single mysterious suitor. Fortunately, when the challengers were informed of his other obligations, they grudgingly accept that they’d have to entertain themselves, leaving Shiro free for more important matters: namely, coming up with plots to convince Allura to tell him the identity of her champion.

(He had not, in fact, put the encounter from his mind.)

It had taken only an hour of fitful sleep before Shiro settled on “bribery,” but it took a full two hours of the following day to gather three cases of the hot peppers she liked and a cask of the whiskey-milk that Princess Allura favored. The stench of them both combined was enough to make him gag, but he was perfectly willing to ignore that if it meant getting answers. He sent them by way of their fastest messengers, accompanied by a formal letter that might have been more pleading than strictly necessary. Unfortunately, Shiro didn’t expect to hear back very quickly; between Allura likely intending to keep it a secret and the relatively short duration of the Games, he probably wouldn’t know the answer until he was already king. 

Still, it was better than doing nothing, which was what he did for the remainder of the day. He didn’t plan to, but despite making the time to tend to his duties, Shiro apparently had none. With even the most basic task being either postponed or delegated, Shiro was left with unexpected time to himself; he found it all highly suspicious, and after occupying himself until past the midday meal with trivial things, he went in search of his council. 

Despite his best efforts, the council seemed to be conveniently busy or in a hurry every time Shiro found any of them. When he spoke to Advisor Almericus, he was on the way to a very important meeting with the palace guard, but of course the meeting was much too minor for Shiro to attend himself. Advisor Ellice meanwhile, had to journey to Altea quite urgently, a grueling journey for a single day especially when considering her age. Even Edmund, usually the most accommodating, seemed to immediately find somewhere to be whenever Shiro asked for him.

If Shiro didn't know any better, he'd guess that he was either being usurped or set up for an assassination, and he couldn't say he cared for either option. The third, more likely option—that they'd deliberately given him a day to rest in light of his "condition"—he liked even less. Regardless of their motive, it was clear they were hiding something from him and going out of their way to avoid talking to him alone. It did not bode well.

The evening of Shiro’s unexpected day off came to an end with his spine tight with suspicion, and it took him many hours to fall asleep.

### 

The second day of the Games was much like the first, except that Shiro was almost looking forward to it. Although other people might have been surprised by this, Shiro himself wasn't; he'd always appreciated talent, and there was something soothing about watching individual performances that were about skill absent bloodshed. Even if most of the challengers chose things that emphasized their combat abilities, it was still more revealing of character than a simple fighting match. More personal.

Or at least that's what Shiro thought, up until the first demonstration, where Sir Rolo came out to show off his swordsmanship and Shiro found himself itching to correct his form. It was distracting and not something Shiro had expected, for which he blamed Keith; thanks to years of observation, Shiro had gotten too used to his flawless movements, his quick reactions, and his impressive stamina. Despite his young age, watching Keith train meant watching a master, and he'd never failed to provide something to aspire to.

These challengers…were not masters, and by the time the fifth contender came forward to demonstrate their skill (with the sword, like the previous four) Shiro knew he was in for a long day. With the sun already sweltering and the ground baking in the open arena, he only hoped that the rest of the demonstrations would be brief, for safety’s sake. He’d hate to think of someone coming out to demonstrate their skill, only to faint from the heat while wearing full armor.

It wasn’t until Sir Lance finished his demonstration (with a spear rather than a sword, and at this point Shiro was willing to give credit for the novelty) that he actually sat up straighter in his wooden seat. The Red Knight passed Sir Lance as he exited the field, and in his hand he held…a sword. Shiro slumped back down in disappointment.

It wasn’t until the Red Knight took a stance that was both unfamiliar and not that Shiro realized he was getting something different from the standard positions, and he sat up again, intrigued. Now that he looked more closely, he could see that the Red Knight wasn’t holding a sword at all but a katar, and Shiro wondered how he’d missed that. Had he fought with that weapon in the individual fighting matches, and Shiro just hadn’t noticed? It seemed unlikely.

Then the Red Knight began to move and Shiro’s mouth went dry, all other thoughts leaving his head. 

"What’s he doing?" asked Adviser Balan, sounding bored. Shiro barely noticed that his council was once again at his side, seemingly out of excuses to avoid him for now. "More sword demonstrations?""

"No," Shiro answered back quietly. His heart was pounding fast enough that he wondered if he should be concerned about the heat, even though they were once again sitting under a shaded canopy. "It's a dance."

More than one person scoffed.

"I've never seen any sort of dance like that!"

Shiro hadn't either, but he recognized it all the same. Years ago, before the war with the Galra had begun, he'd found a book in his father’s study about ancient dances. It had been full of fading illustrations and neat lettering describing each pose, and Shiro had been fixated on one dance in particular, the Dance of the Lions. It was supposed to be a gesture of respect and trust, each pose designed to offer a weapon while presenting those around them with the vulnerable slope of their back or head, but Shiro hadn’t seen it that way; more than once, he’d jokingly told Keith that he found it romantic. Dancing alone and offering that much trust to any one person? It had to come from a place of love.

And now the Red Knight was performing it, and doing so in a way that Shiro had only ever dreamed of seeing. The way he moved was amazing, transitioning from pose to pose smoothly, answering questions about the dance that illustrations alone couldn’t. The only thing that was missing was music, but Shiro could imagine that just fine; with how light the Red Knight’s steps were and how sharp his twists and turns, how high and clean his jumps, Shiro imagined something fast, with string instruments and drums. When the dance was over, Shiro wasn’t the only one sitting on the edge of his seat, and the smattering of applause that had followed each performance up to that point was louder and more enthusiastic this time. The Red Knight bowed low in the direction of Shiro’s throne, but he used his katar for support when he stood up again; the dance had taken a lot out of him, and Shiro wondered why he’d exhausted himself like that. Shiro could tell from his movements in the dance that a sword demonstration from him would’ve been impressive enough to make him one of the day’s winners, and yet he’d chosen to do a dance few people would know, a dance that Shiro ached to see. There was no way he could’ve known, and yet he had.

When the eight winners of the day were chosen, the Red Knight was naturally among them.

***

It was no one’s fault that Shiro was distracted at the ball that night, but Shiro felt guilty anyway when he had to ask Sir Lance to repeat himself a second time.

Sir Lance, in keeping with his easy-going nature, didn’t comment on Shiro’s lack of focus, which was remarkably tactful of him.

“I said, what did you think of Sir Hunk’s performance?” 

The question was delivered mildly, as though he had no particular interest in the answer, but Shiro wasn’t fooled. Sir Hunk of Sandwich Isle might not have been one of the day’s finalists due to his baffling attempt at the sword when the previous day had shown him to be an expert with a club, but he and Sir Lance were often seen in conversation when Shiro was otherwise occupied. They were, as Sir Hunk had freely explained, childhood friends.

It was endearing to know that Sir Lance wasn’t too arrogant to ask after the impression his friend had made, and Shiro reminded himself, again, that he was supposed to be evaluating _all_ of the remaining challengers for their potential as his match, rather than staring at the terrace doors impatiently.

“He did very well,” Shiro said, which was only a small lie. It was worth it for the way Sir Lance beamed before he quickly tried to hide it, and Shiro made a mental note that a firmer alliance with Veradera might also come with Sandwich Isle in tow.

Then he saw movement out of the corner of his eye, on the terrace outside, and Shiro completely forgot about alliances. He fumbled his wine glass as he set it down on the table, hard enough that some of it stained the white tablecloth and his sleeve.

Sir Lance’s hand came up to his elbow to steady him, his expression pinched with concern.

“Prince Takashi? Are you all right?”

“Yes. I just need some fresh air, that’s all.”

Sir Lance nodded slowly and released him. As far as touches went, Shiro had barely noticed his.

“I’ll wait here for you, unless you’d like me to go with you?”

The lack of a hopeful lilt in his voice made it easier to shake his head, and Shiro left, certain that he’d come back to Sir Lance and Sir Hunk deep in conversation. In a way, it reminded him of how he was with Keith, and he wondered if perhaps that should’ve been taken as a bad sign rather than an endearing one. After all, surely _one_ person in love with their unavailable friend was enough for any marriage.

Shiro almost laughed at the thought, but he muffled it as best he could as he made his way outside. Unlike the first ball, this time the crowd thinned well in advance of the doors, likely to avoid the unseasonable draft; the weather was cooler, with a slight chill to the air that anyone would be smart to avoid. Surely not even the Red Knight would be outside after such an exhausting day, and sure enough, when he stepped onto the terrace, Shiro saw no one. The glimpse he'd seen might have just been his imagination.

Instead of going back inside, Shiro leaned against the wall and spoke confidently to the dark.

“You did well today. Congratulations.”

The answer was silence for several minutes before the Red Knight must have realized he wasn’t going anywhere, and he emerged from the shadows.

“Thank you, Prince Shiro.” Another bow, this one slighter than the last; Shiro wondered if he’d injured his back, and he resisted the urge to chide him for overtaxing himself. As enjoyable as it had been to watch, there were limits to what a person should do in full armor, which the Red Knight still stubbornly insisted on wearing.

“It was a lovely performance.” _Lovely_ was understating it, but Shiro had spent all afternoon wondering how wise it was to go into more detail with a masked man. “But I admit that I’m curious about why you chose that dance. Is it Altean?”

Despite Shiro's angling, the Red Knight didn’t fall for the innocently asked question, and he shook his head in denial until his armor clinked. He was more visible than he should’ve been in the dark, his armor gleaming in only the bare light that came from the windows; Shiro wondered if he polished it every night, or if it was done by a squire he’d ordered to stay out of sight, lest they give away his identity.

“No. But the Altean crest is a lion, so it seemed appropriate. I’ve spent years trying to learn it.” The Red Knight tapped his armored hand against the wall, several feet from Shiro. The vibrations traveled easily through stone, and they felt almost like a touch. “I could teach it to you.”

Despite the words, his tone was straight-forward rather than flirtatious. Shiro wasn’t sure what to make of that.

“No, thank you,” he answered politely. “I haven’t picked up a sword in months; I can’t imagine dancing with one would be any less strenuous. Even someone as talented as you had trouble.”

The Red Knight ignored the compliment and fixated on the one part of the statement that Shiro had hoped he would ignore. 

“Why haven’t you picked up a sword? You don’t lack the talent.”

As usual, the Red Knight seemed to know far more about him than Shiro could understand. It was amazing, actually, that he didn't know this.

“I have one arm,” Shiro said bluntly, but the words didn’t seem to affect the Red Knight at all. He actually shrugged, as though the statement was of no more concern to him than Shiro having white in his hair or an easy smile.

“And one made of metal,” the Red Knight volleyed back, with far more passion than any of his awkward flirtations or compliments had contained. “If it were made of steel or iron, it could be a shield that just happens to be attached to your body. You have the range of motion for it, even though you try to keep it unused at your side. Why?”

The question made Shiro jerk, the question unintentionally ringing with memories.

 _Why?_ A voice had asked, in pain. One of his soldiers had fallen in battle, but they weren’t dead yet; with no way to retreat or move or speak, Shiro hadn’t been able to answer. Hadn’t been able to help, no matter how talented he was.

All he’d been able to do was get good men killed, and then the Galra had been there, literally ripping him from his horse.

“That's not your business,” Shiro said sharply, more to the memory than the Red Knight. 

Still, it was the Red Knight who answered back.

“Of course not, Your Highness.” He bowed shortly, and even through the armor, Shiro could tell the motion was stiff. “It wasn’t my place to ask.”

“It’s not that. We’ve spoken frankly before.” Shiro sighed, long and low. He was mad at himself for losing his temper, but more than that, he was surprised; very few people could get past his polite facade even enough to make him remember. “It’s just bad memories.”

“I’m sorry.”

The Red Knight sounded like he felt personally responsible for Shiro’s dark thoughts, and Shiro had to laugh. The moment was so familiar, so normal, that it took Shiro a moment to realize it shouldn't have been.

“It’s strange," he said slowly, "but...you remind me of—a friend.”

Keith. The Red Knight reminded him of Keith. 

The realization hit him, and Shiro didn’t know whether to laugh again or cry at the injustice of it, of being so close to what he wanted but not quite there. The Red Knight was probably a good man, if blunt. He was here competing for Shiro’s hand because he’d met him before, and he actually seemed to find Shiro attractive despite his physical flaws, which seemed like a miracle. If the Red Knight won, they might even be able to make a happy marriage for years to come.

But he still wasn’t Keith. He didn’t come to the palace as an orphan, with desperation in his eyes and the hungry lines of his mouth as he begged for a _chance_. He didn’t radiate talent like heat from his skin even as he struggled to hold a sword nearly as big as he was, and he didn’t keep standing even after he was knocked down tens, dozens, hundreds of times. He didn’t make himself someone Shiro needed with his determination, his opinions, and his friendship, and he didn’t cry over Shiro’s bedside when they recovered him from the Galra, hand resting unhesitatingly over the bandage where his arm had been. The Red Knight might have been a lot of things, but he still wasn’t Keith, and that meant that Shiro didn’t want him, not really.

He was also the best Shiro could get, and the fact settled heavy in his chest, like a weight. That, the reality of it, was worse than bad memories.

But because he was perceptive just like Keith, the Red Knight noticed his change in mood.

“Prince Shiro? Are you all right?” 

The question came out as concerned as it ought to, and Shiro saw the aborted movement out of the corner of his eye, of the Red Knight wanting to reach for his shoulder. He didn’t follow through on the movement, though, and Shiro figured that was for the best; he might’ve done something rash if he’d been offered comfort just then.

“I’m fine.” He smiled gamely, and wondered if the Red Knight knew him too well to be fooled. “I should get back to the ball, though. It’s impolite to focus on only one winner, after all.”

"Of course." The Red Knight took a step back and then another, no doubt itching to flee back into the night now that his conversation with Shiro was over. "Have a good night, Prince Shiro."

Shiro returned the farewell with a nod before he turned back to the ballroom, certain that the Red Knight would be gone before he'd taken even one step inside.

***

Shiro didn't give his council a chance to hide from him the following day. He planned his ambush carefully, first by rising at dawn and having his valet on call, second by confirming that all the challengers in residence would spend the day occupied with some hunt or another. If his suspicions had any merit, Shiro expected to find all of his advisors planning their next move in the safety of the council's meeting room, and he didn't want an audience anywhere nearby for the fallout.

Shortly after breakfast, he had the guards waiting in the hallway, and he burst through the council room doors without warning. He told himself that he didn't feel betrayed or hurt to find them huddling together as he'd expected, clearly deep in a plot.

"What's going on?" Shiro asked plainly, not bothering with coy words. His spine was straighter than it had ever been, his voice deep with suspicion, and the members of the council closet to the door shared a worried glance.

No one said a word for several minutes, but in the end, it was Edmund who stepped forward first, pulling nervously at his shirt.

"What do you mean, Your Highness?"

"You know," Shiro answered. "Don't pretend you don't." He moved his hand in a wide circle, encompassing both the room and the council themselves, many of whom were still frozen and hunched close to one another. "Siphoning my duties. Avoiding me. Hiding something."

As far as accusations went, it would've been an easy one to deny. To Shiro's surprise, no one tried to; instead, all ten faces in front of him looked immediately guilty and ashamed, and something else that made him feel almost sick.

Something was wrong.

"Prince Takashi—" Advisor Lowis began, his quiet, raspy voice breaking the stillness of the air.

"—perhaps you should sit down," Edmund finished, and when he pulled out a chair, Shiro realized what else he'd seen on their faces.

Pity.

He sat. In his mind, he already knew what they were going to say; he knew what secret they'd try to keep from him, why they'd try to keep him from the stables and the guard alike.

"The riders found Keith."

 _His body_ , Shiro thought. _They've found his body._

"No. But they found where he was last." Edmund's hand came to rest on the arm of his chair, his fingers curling in and out while he struggled with the words. "Mister Keith…appears to have eloped."

The breath left Shiro's body like it was punched out of him, with pain on the exhale. He'd feared the worst, but this…this was close.

"How can they know that?" he asked quietly, more to himself than anyone else.

It was Advisor Almericus who answered him, which only made sense; he'd been the one who had claimed an urgent meeting with the guard when Shiro had last asked about him. Shiro should have realized that the excuse meant sending the guard to investigate.

"They found his signature in a ledger on the edge of town. The Boysenberry Inn. He was not alone."

"It can't be him."

"I'm sorry, Prince Takashi. We didn't want to burden you with this, not now."

 _Not while the Games are in progress_ , Almericus didn't say, although that was clearly what he meant. As much as the council might have cared for Shiro's feelings personally, they couldn't afford to have him at less than peak performance for the Royal Games. Couldn't afford to have him distracted, or causing a scandal.

Judging by the way his knees were shaking and his chest hurt, the concern was very real. His half-arm ached and ached under its metal sleeve, and Shiro rubbed at it unconsciously rather than rub at his eyes.

"…is he alive? At least?"

"We can't know for certain without finding where he went afterward, Your Highness. The inn connects to the main road, and he could've gone to any number of countries from there."

"I see." Shiro sighed out shakily. "Thank you for telling me."

The council flinched, Edmund most of all. Shiro took a perverse pleasure in that, and he stood as regally as he knew how before leaving without another word.

***

The moment he was out of the sight of the guards, Shiro hurried to the stables and took the first available mount that could be saddled, his mind already charting the quickest route to the Boysenberry Inn. While he'd never stayed there himself, the name was familiar, a place that he'd passed dozens of times when he came to and from the city, and the need to go there was strong. Even if the council thought they were right, they could've been wrong, and no one knew Keith's handwriting better than Shiro. And even if they weren't wrong…Shiro needed to know that with his soul, rather than by the word of someone else.

Since it was nearing midday and some guest would soon be missing their horse, Shiro made himself make the trip as quickly as possible, with hooves flying over cobblestones as he rode through the widest streets. By the time he'd made it to the north end of town, the streets had narrowed significantly and the cobblestones were showing their age, becoming more and more uneven with each passing step. It was enough to risk twisting a horse's ankle if their rider wasn't careful, and so Shiro dismounted; he was only a few streets from the inn he was seeking, if memory served, so he continued on foot, leading the horse behind him but careful to avoid every pothole.

Two blocks from where he suspected the inn to be, Shiro turned the corner and nearly ran directly into the Red Knight.

"Prince Shiro," the Red Knight greeted, sounding just as surprised as Shiro was. He didn't bow this time; they were standing much too close for him to manage one, not without a very awkward jump backwards.

"Red Knight," Shiro returned, his hand tightening on the horse's reins. "Were you heading to the market? Don't let me keep you."

"It's nothing that can't wait." The Red Knight's helmet turned, facing the space over Shiro's shoulder. "Do you often leave the palace without a guard?"

He sounded deeply annoyed by that, and Shiro wished he had it in him to be amused at the moment. Apparently, the Red Knight had more in common with Keith than just his proficiency with a sword and an insistence that Shiro return to his training regimen despite any and all setbacks. Shiro briefly hoped he didn't also share a tendency toward elopement, and he had to fight back the feeling of guilt at the thought; it was disloyal to think such things without even confirming it.

"When necessary," Shiro answered flatly. "This is an urgent matter and couldn't wait."

"What sort of urgent matter?"

"A missing person."

"I'll go with you." At Shiro's look, he shrugged. "If you insist on not carrying a sword, you shouldn't be without someone who has one."

Shiro had no argument for that, and he didn't protest when the Red Knight pulled the horse's reins from Shiro's loose grip and fell into step behind him. It felt odd to have someone at his back again after weeks without it, even if Shiro wasn't exactly expecting him to plunge a knife between his shoulder blades.

Shiro tried to walk quickly all the same, and it took only a few minutes to reach the Boysenberry Inn, a rundown little building with fallen bricks and dying bushes around the perimeter. It was almost the sole building fit for human occupation in this area, and Shiro turned to look at the Red Knight.

"Is this where you're staying as well?"

"It was the cleanest room and bed available for the price," the Red Knight said, sounding certain.

"You could've stayed in the palace," Shiro reminded him. "It was offered."

"I didn't want to take advantage," he said, which was such an odd thing to say that Shiro let it rest in silence as they walked up the steps.

The Red Knight elected to stay outside with the horse and Shiro didn't comment on that. Even without his presence, it was easy enough to find the owner of the inn and ask to get a look at his ledger from the month before, even if it also required Shiro to slip him a handful of coins, much more than a night's stay would've been worth.

The ledger was set on the table in front of him, and the pages were worn, damaged by water and poor storage. He handled them gingerly and only when necessary while his eyes skimmed the ledger, looking for the day Keith had disappeared. At first he found nothing, but then by chance his eyes skipped a line, landing on the day before. There, in handwriting as familiar as his own, were the words **Keith and Pidge Gunderson** , for two night's stay in the inn's "best room."

Keith had left even earlier than everyone had thought, Shiro realized numbly, and he'd never said a word of goodbye. What's more, he'd taken a last name when he'd left; years ago, he'd refused to use "Shirogane" when Shiro had offered it to him, claiming that it would give the wrong impression.

Shiro was outside before he fully realized he was leaving, and he came to his senses on the edge of the street.

Well. At least he had his proof, if the stabbing feeling under his ribs was any indication. That was enough for him, and he would've left as quickly as he could, except Shiro didn't know where his damn horse was.

"Your Highness?"

Shiro startled and turned, fast enough that the air made his eyes sting; he hadn't even heard the Red Knight come up behind him. Hadn't thought about him at all.

"Yes? What is it?" he replied, perhaps too harshly. The words certainly felt harsh, coming out of his throat.

The Red Knight visibly hesitated.

Shiro wondered what he saw on his face.

"The owner of the inn asked if you were done with the ledger."

"Oh. Yes, of course." Shiro looked at the ground, at the fine dust that clung to his boots. "Please tell him that I'm sorry for wasting his time. Everything seems to be in order."

"Of course."

Shiro heard the crunch of his metal boots on the gravel, one step and then another before he paused.

"It doesn't mean anything, you know." The Red Knight sounded almost desperate for Shiro to believe it. "Anyone can write a name in a ledger."

"I know that." _But_ , he reminded himself sadly, _Keith hates lying._ If it was true, it meant that Keith didn't trust Shiro to approve his marriage. If it wasn't true, then it was to cover up something much worse. Shiro might've learned to be happy with whoever Keith chose to love, but he couldn't shake the feeling that that wasn't the case. Couldn't shake the idea that Keith was in danger, waiting for someone to come for him who never would.

Keith, when it mattered, had always come back for Shiro.

"I just wish I knew if he was alive. And why he left—the real reason." Shiro gave the Red Knight a weak smile before looking back down at the ground. "I'm sorry. I'm not representing my country very well at the moment."

The Red Knight was so still for so long that Shiro wondered if he might have left. It would've been fitting.

"I should be the one apologizing to you," he finally said.

Shiro didn't understand until the air shifted around him, bringing the Red Knight's pointed boots within his sight moments before he felt the unmistakable feeling of arms coming around him. Shiro stiffened instinctively before he realized that the Red Knight was hugging him. It was awkward and slightly uncomfortable, plates of metal digging almost painfully into Shiro's chest and the Red Knight's arms barely able to stretch around him, but it was also clearly intended as a comfort.

Shiro, despite his best judgement, hugged back.

"Your friend must have had a good reason," the Red Knight said quietly. "They wouldn't have left otherwise."

As he held on tighter to the comfort he'd been offered, Shiro could only hope that was true.

### 

Due to the time and concentration necessary for any game of strategy or wit, it was decided that the third game day would be closed off from the public and conducted indoors, with the games themselves being watched closely by members of the council rather than requiring Shiro himself to be present at each one to save time. While the arrangement was clearly meant as a reprieve, Shiro didn’t take it; in light of the previous day, he needed the distraction, and with the initial four games happening simultaneously, there was plenty to be distracted by. Besides, it was interesting to see the games chosen, and who favored what; without assigned matches, the challengers naturally drifted towards their preferred type, whether it was cards or a board game, and they settled into their seats with stiff backs and fierce glares at their opponents. The atmosphere was not unlike a war negotiation, and even though Shiro had expected it, he still felt himself tense.

At the end of this day, only two challengers would remain, and one of them would become Shiro’s spouse. The very thought was nerve wracking, especially when he considered the possibilities. Would it be Lady Nyma, with her cunning and speed and disdainful eyes? Would it be General Iverson, with his impressive military background and cold nature and twice Shiro’s years? Would it be Sir Fokker, who had said not a single word in the entirety of his stay? No matter how he looked at it, most of the options seemed dire, and yet Shiro wondered if he’d prefer that: someone who he could dismiss as cruel or cold and an unfortunate match, rather than someone who already wanted him, someone who would be let down if their interest wasn’t returned. 

While Shiro could offer a crown and a fortune, enough for most, he wasn’t sure if he could offer himself. 

He tried not to think about it as he walked the room, and his eyes deliberately skimmed over the Red Knight’s match, then Sir Lance’s as well. For the first time, he wasn’t sure if either of them would win; Sir Lance faced Lady Nyma while the Red Knight faced General Iverson, and both matches seemed stacked against them.

In the end, it was chance that enabled Sir Lance to win his match; a little over an hour into the day’s games, Lady Nyma lost her temper and launched herself over the table to attack him, violating the rules of conduct. She was disqualified and removed from the premises, while Sir Lance shakily tried to regain his footing from his upended chair.

Shiro gave up on pretending indifference and rushed to help him stand, receiving a grateful smile in return as Sir Lance leaned heavily against Shiro’s side and tried to balance. What might have been meant as seductive unfortunately fell short, thanks to his pointy elbows and thin frame.

“All I said was that she looked lovely in blue,” Sir Lance said.

Shiro raised one eyebrow.

“That’s all?”

From what he’d seen of Sir Lance’s match, his lips had rarely been still.

“Well, maybe a few things more.” His expression looked as innocent as he could make it. “I might have asked if she was related to Lady Oriolda. They seemed similar to me.”

Lady Oriolda, of course, had been eliminated in the first round, and on top of that, she looked nothing like Lady Nyma in either coloring or build. Her vanity must have required that she point that out, violently; Sir Lance had clearly not intended the barb to be quite that effective.

“Good strategy,” was all Shiro said in the end, and he turned back around, intending to seek out one of the council members nearby to make sure that Lady Nyma was removed from the challenger list. He saw the Red Knight turned towards him and he smiled reflexively, entirely forgetting his plan to ignore him. He received a nod in return before the Red Knight turned back to his game and a red-faced General Iverson.

Although it took several more hours, the longest one yet, the Red Knight won his match. When the morning’s four winner settled down to new games to winnow their numbers down to two, Shiro found himself holding his breath. Sir Lance and the Red Knight did not sit across from one another, however, and this time when they played, their advantages were clear.

Despite his earlier worries, when the Red Knight and Sir Lance were announced the day’s winners, all Shiro felt was relief.

***

The atmosphere of that night’s ball was different than the others had been, and everyone knew it. It wasn’t just because the two finalists had been chosen; if anything, the excitement and gambling surrounding the Games themselves were a welcome relief to the tension in the air, the strain in conversations. No, the atmosphere was most charged because—for the first time—the Red Knight actually entered the ballroom to greet Shiro rather than lurking in the shadows of the terrace. 

What should have been an auspicious sign, however, was ruined by the fact that the Red Knight and Sir Lance apparently hated each other. It took the better part of an hour to find out why, but according to most sources of gossip, they’d spent the majority of the rest days between games practicing side-by-side, trying to outdo one another. The Red Knight’s talent with his katar was one point of contention, while Sir Lance’s tendency toward conversation was another. It was rivalry, plain and simple, and it explained easily why they had chosen not to play against one another for that day’s games; likely, they weren’t willing to admit defeat to the other until the final game day.

That did not, however, stop them from bickering like children for twenty minutes before steadfastly and openly avoiding one another for the rest of the night. It was enough to make Shiro’s head spin, and he didn’t try to force the issue; as soon as they went their separate ways, Shiro followed to wish Sir Lance good luck on the final match. He didn’t miss the smug expression on Sir Lance’s face at being greeted first, nor did he miss the way the Red Knight seemed to sulk about afterwards, holding a glass of wine that he couldn’t drink with his helmet still on. It should've been laughable, but wasn't; if anything, it made Shiro feel like a toy being fought over by two particularly petty dogs, and he was prepared to dismiss _both_ of them and retire early when he turned and saw the Red Knight surrounded by over eager nobles still curious about his identity.

It didn’t stay that way for long. The Red Knight, when not talking to Shiro alone, was apparently _shockingly_ rude, and after about half an hour of watching him try to navigate the court politics (and failing utterly) Shiro called him over in his most authoritarian voice. The relief in the Red Knight’s shoulders at the excuse to avoid the nosy crowd was almost painful to see, and Shiro wished he’d thought to do it sooner. 

“You can leave, if you like,” Shiro said quietly, once the Red Knight was close enough. He’d already forgiven him for his earlier behavior, especially since, of the two of them, Sir Lance was far worse about it. “You don’t have to stay the whole time.”

The Red Knight sighed and set his untouched glass aside.

“I don’t think I’d make a very good consort,” he said, sounding so mournful that Shiro let out a startled laugh. He thought it was amazing that he could laugh at all, after yesterday.

“You wouldn’t be a consort—you’d be the Wed-King. It’s a different position, with a much smaller, ah, entertainment aspect.” The Red Knight didn’t seem to appreciate the difference, but then he’d seemed on edge all night, beyond even his irritation with Sir Lance. Worried, perhaps, or nervous. “You’d even have equal weight in choosing our successor.”

“Well, that’s important.” The Red Knight fidgeted, a truly odd thing to see from someone in full armor. “Are you going to wish me luck this time? Against Sir Lance?”

Shiro straightened his back and nodded.

“Of course.”

He’d opened his mouth to do so when the Red Knight held up a hand to stop him.

“Not here.” The Red Knight raised his hand to his helmet and paused, as though he’d been aiming to run a hand over his hair or face and forgot. “Would you meet me in the stables? Around midnight?”

Shiro’s eyebrows shot up his forehead.

“Not for anything suspicious!" The Red Knight said, sounding flustered. “I just…all these people. I’d rather it was just you and me.”

“If you like.”

It was a terrible idea, but Shiro shrugged. It was not the first time he’d met the Red Knight outside of the palace; for that matter, it wasn’t the first time he’d met someone after dark in the stables. It would probably be fine.

***

The problem with sneaking into the stables after dark was that Shiro could not come up with a believable excuse for why he needed to keep either his metal arm _or_ his clothes on to go to bed. After trying and failing to convince his valet that he thought the council might call for him due to a difficult challenger earlier in the day, he gave up and accepted that he might well be meeting the Red Knight in his nightclothes. Half-till midnight, he decided that he couldn't actually go through with it, and he began the painstaking task of getting dressed with one hand. Between the laces on his boots and the ones on his breeches, it took him a good forty-five minutes before he was actually able to begin the walk to the stables, and by then he was certain that the Red Knight would have already gotten impatient and left, convinced he was not going to show.

Shiro went anyway; he'd given his word, in a way, and since he was already up, it wouldn't hurt to enjoy the brisk walk. The stables were on the far corner of the palace land, still well within the gates but surrounded by trees, and Shiro had always enjoyed being out here when he had the time. The atmosphere might've been a bit more eerie and gloomy in the dark, but the inside of the stables was still familiar, with the smell of hay and horse filling the air. It was also damned cold, and Shiro wished he'd thought to try his luck with putting on a thicker jacket.

The Red Knight, of course, was nowhere to be found, but while Shiro might normally roll his eyes at that, this time he didn't.

"Red Knight?" he asked of the darkness, his eyes scanning the area for movement that wasn't a quietly sleeping horse. When he felt a hand gently touch his shoulder from behind, he stiffened but otherwise didn't move.

The hand stayed there, warming him through his shirt. Shiro was amazed he could feel it, but then he realized why: the Red Knight wasn't wearing his gauntlets, and possibly not wearing his armor at all.

The Red Knight must have felt Shiro tensing in preparation for turning, because his soft touch quickly became an iron grip.

"Don't turn. Please."

Without the helmet in the way, his voice was softer, a whisper that was easy to lose among the sounds of the stable and the wind. Shiro had to focus to make out the words.

"I don't think," Shiro said, just as quietly, "that wishing you luck will be very effective if I'm saying it over my shoulder."

The Red Knight didn't release his shoulder, but his touch became lighter and far more distracting.

"Then could you close your eyes?"

"It's pitch black in here," Shiro said, ignoring that he was perfectly able to pick out the shapes of individual stalls and animals. That came from years of practice. "And I'll have to see your face eventually."

"You will. After the last game, you will. One way or another."

"Well, at least _that_ didn't sound threatening at all." Shiro sighed and gamely closed his eyes anyway. "Fine. My eyes are closed."

The Red Knight's touch at his back disappeared, and Shiro felt the air shift as he circled him. His eyes twitched with the effort of keeping them closed, and he wasn't sure how close they stood until he felt a soft breath on his chin and warm hands came up to rest on his cheeks. Thumbs glided across his cheekbones and the scar over his nose, the caress gentle but deliberate, and Shiro found it hard to breathe all of a sudden. He swallowed, but that didn't erase the way the air around him suddenly felt hot, his own tongue thick in his mouth.

This was far more intimate than a simple wish of 'good luck,' and Shiro knew he should shake the touch off. He had the time; the Red Knight seemed frozen, not moving beyond his soft touch against his skin while he waited for him. Waited for him to say 'no.'

Shiro…didn't.

"Good luck on the final match," Shiro said, the words a whisper. If the Red Knight heard him, it didn't matter, because before the last word had left his lips, the Red Knight's mouth was there.

In contrast to his hands, his lips were cool, and they trembled with nerves. His hands were surer, and they turned Shiro's head just slightly so that the Red Knight could press closer. Their lips slid against one another softly, the loudest sound their breathing, and the Red Knight's hand shifted, sliding behind Shiro's head to his hair while his other hand drifted down to cup his jaw. Soft hair tickled Shiro's cheeks and his hand itched to touch, but he couldn't bring himself to; in the darkness, even that small clue would've felt like stealing, taking something the Red Knight wasn't ready to give.

When the Red Knight pulled gently on his hair, Shiro's lips parted on reflex, almost to the edge of deepening the kiss, and suddenly he was gone, even his hands no longer touching him. Shiro felt knocked off his feet even though they were both firmly on the ground, but he kept his eyes closed.

They breathed heavily in the darkness for a moment or two, and then:

"Thank you."

The words were sincere although it sounded like it took effort to say them, and Shiro was still confused, disoriented, breathless. The kiss couldn't have lasted more than a few seconds, and Shiro got the impression that the Red Knight didn't kiss many people; it wasn't coy and practiced, didn't have anything in common with the lust-filled dalliances of Shiro's youth. Instead, it felt like shyness and longing—like the Red Knight wasn't sure it would be entirely welcome in the light of day, but was satisfied with even something that small from him. Shiro didn't think he'd ever been someone worth longing for, and he couldn't help but wonder _why_.

"Who _are_ you?" he asked, voice ragged. Shiro must have forgotten a _lifetime_ of memories if the Red Knight wanted him this much.

"I'll see you on the final game day, Prince Shiro," the Red Knight said in lieu of an answer. His voice sounded just as soft as it had before, but this time it was accompanied by a soft touch to Shiro's fingers. Another kiss.

When Shiro opened his eyes, the Red Knight was gone.

***

Despite his best attempts, sleep would not come after that encounter, and Shiro finally gave up around dawn. He felt conflicted, and that didn't sit well with him; for all that he'd had a tumultuous life in the past few years, Shiro had always been relatively certain about his choices, never wavered on the things that mattered. Now, however, all he had to do was lick his lips in the dry air and _remember_ , and he felt…guilty. Ashamed.

It didn't take many guesses to figure out why. Apparently, Keith could disappear for weeks, even elope with someone without a word, and Shiro would still feel guilty about kissing someone else—someone who might even be his husband before the week was out. It was maddening, and Shiro didn't know who to turn to; it's not like he could ask Edmund or his valet for help about this.

The idea occurred while he was eating breakfast, runny eggs over toast, and he remembered how his father had eaten his eggs over-hard, always. It was the little details like that, Shiro knew, that would haunt him until his dying day; his parents had been a presence in his life that he couldn't shake even after they were gone, and their advice had been invaluable to him.

Shiro stood before he fully realized he was going to, mind already set on his destination.

"I'm going out!" he said, to everyone and no one, and he strode from the room to sounds of people scrambling behind him. It was possible someone would think to send a guard after him, but it was just as likely not; with that in mind, he slowed as he walked by the armory, and then grabbed a sword and scabbard on a whim. It felt heavy and unnatural in his hand and on his body, but Shiro knew it was just because he was out of practice. If he had to guess, he'd say the sword was actually smaller than those he used to use; he made a mental note to see the blacksmith, and also see the armorer about crafting him another arm of sturdier metal. It was not, he told himself, because the Red Knight had recommended it. It was just…a good idea, one he hadn't wanted to listen to.

Perhaps, he decided, it was time to listen.

Before he left the palace as he usually would, he summoned his coach. While it was a simple enough ride to get to the royal graveyard, the slowly-brightening sky looked overcast and cloudy, and Shiro didn't want to get caught in the rain and mud. It wouldn't do anyone any good if he visited his parents while muddy, and with that thought in mind, he stepped into the coach. It felt too large with just him inside, but he ignored that and waited quietly.

When the coach slowed in front of his destination, Shiro hopped out with a nod and trudged past the fence line. It was raining but lightly, not enough to obscure the path or make it impossible to travel, but Shiro was careful with his steps anyway as he looked from side to side. His parent's graves barely took up any space in the royal graveyard, their headstones small and unobtrusive against the skyline in comparison to those from generations before. Shiro knew there'd been no time for an elaborate funeral and no craftsmen to spare for artistry, but despite this logic, it still seemed a crime to him. To Shiro, there had been no greater queen and wed-king, and yet it took him an age to find where they'd been laid to rest. This was only the second time he had visited; the first, he had been numb, shaken, barely awake and aware, and he'd leaned on Keith the entire time.

This time, he was alone, and with no one around to see, he sank to his knees in the soft dirt. To hell with the mud.

"I'm sorry I haven't visited," he said, feeling like a fool as he stared at the engraving on his mother's tombstone. "I've been…busy."

An understatement, to be sure; if his mother been here, she would've laughed, likely while attempting to brush the hair away from his eyes and ordering him to sleep more and worry less. She would also, he imagined, have advice for him; she'd been through the Royal Games before. She must have been conflicted just like he was, especially when Shiro knew that his father hadn't been her first choice. They'd made it work regardless; Shiro would be selfish to do any less, especially when neither Sir Lance nor the Red Knight would make an objectionable match.

But…

"I'm in love with Keith," he said out loud for the first time. The information would not have surprised either of his parents, he suspected, since they had watched over them both. "But I think I could love someone else if I tried." The prospect was terrifying, and terrifyingly real. He'd only known the Red Knight for _less than a week_ ; was his heart that fickle?

No, he decided. The love wasn't there yet. All that was there was potential, but that was both enough and more than Shiro could've hoped for. He shouldn't have to apologize for what he might feel one day, and he wouldn't; what tormented him now was not knowing what had become of Keith, and not knowing if Keith had ever realized that Shiro loved him.

"I never told him." Not even once, and he'd had the chance. Maybe—probably—Keith wouldn't have returned the feeling, but he'd surely deserved to know, even if nothing would've come of it. Maybe if Shiro had told him, he wouldn't have felt like he had to run. It was impossible to say, but Shiro knew one thing: he missed Keith. He would always miss Keith, and that feeling was real.

"I wish Keith was here. But." Shiro sighed and sat back on his heels, looking towards the sky. It felt more honest than staring at stone. "I want him to be happy more than I want that. If he ever wants to come home…I'll welcome him, no matter the circumstances." It felt good to say the words, even if his heart stuttered and stammered, still wondering. "If either of you see him before I do, please take care of him."

Shiro touched his hand to cool, damp stone, over the crest of his family and kingdom. Although the stone didn't speak to him, it still felt like a promise, and he sat there beside his parents' graves until his legs went numb from the cold, and his coachman came inside the fence to fetch him.

### 

The fourth and final day of the games dawned bright and auspicious, and Shiro chose to take that as a sign. He was not the only one who felt that way; although Shiro had selected his clothes with care that morning and made sure that he wore his most presentable circlet in respect for the day, when he climbed into his seat alongside his council and guard, it was impossible to miss their excited chatter about the days beyond. While some of them might have only been excited to see the end of the Royal Games, others were excited for the country; Shiro becoming king would open up opportunities for more treaties and trade, and not even the staunchest advisor was immune to the temptation of commerce. Those who were excited for Shiro and his soon-to-be marriage, however, mostly stayed silent in acknowledgement of the occasion, merely nodding at Shiro with respect when he looked their way.

When the challengers stepped onto the field, the crowds, both public and noble, fell silent. Shiro's eyes were automatically drawn to the Red Knight first; his armor gleamed even more than usual, and his katar looked fiercely sharp, catching sunlight on the edge of the blade. He looked deadly and moved with confidence, and Shiro wondered, briefly, if that was how he was in battle. If so, he imagined the Galra had run the minute they'd seen him; even Shiro shivered instinctively in trepidation, and he knew the Red Knight would never harm him.

In comparison, looking at Sir Lance was…baffling. His armor was impressive enough, his stance loose-limbed and just as confident, but where Shiro had expected to see him carrying his spear, he saw instead another sword. To Shiro's knowledge, Sir Lance had never fought with the sword in any of the previous games; Shiro hadn't even known he _had_ a sword.

"Is that a sword?" asked Advisor Ellice, and Shiro nodded absently, even though the question likely wasn't directed at him. When both challengers came to a stop at the foot of Shiro's platform, however, he masked his confusion and stood.

"Challengers," he began, hands folded in front of him. "Today is the final match of the Royal Games. Good luck to you both; you may begin when ready."

Sir Lance bowed comically low in response and shot Shiro a wink when he straightened. The crowd laughed, and even Shiro smiled; it was hard not to, when Sir Lance seemed to do everything for a crowd.

The Red Knight, meanwhile, noticed the exchange and dug the tip of his katar almost angrily in the dirt. He didn't look at Shiro once before he stormed to the center of the field, the slump of his shoulders sullen. If that wasn't jealousy, he certainly pretended well, and that made Shiro smile wider as he sat down. The Red Knight's stance, although angry, was still perfect.

When Sir Lance took a stance opposite of him, it was clear he'd never held a sword in his life. Shiro wondered why he'd chosen that weapon, but one glance at the two of them showed them locked in a fierce glare, seemingly unaware of the roaring crowd or any stakes other than _winning_.

Rivalry. Where previously Sir Lance had used it to his advantage against other challengers, it was clear that the urge to beat the Red Knight with his own weapon had defeated him this time. Shiro could only shake his head at the madness of it. Sir Lance might have stood a chance with his spear; with a sword, against a clear master like the Red Knight? It was a rivalry doomed to failure.

To be fair to Sir Lance, once the match started, he lasted longer than Shiro had thought he would. Despite being unfamiliar with the weapon in combat, he still had speed on his side, possibly even greater speed than the Red Knight. He parried at the right times and blocked when he should've, but his offensive maneuvers were lacking; he was not used to fighting so close or with such a heavy weapon.

When the Red Knight knocked him down the first time, Shiro was prepared to call it. After the second, third, and fourth times, however, he couldn't stop himself from doing so, if only to spare Sir Lance the injury to more than his pride.

"People of Shirogane, we have a winner!" Shiro stood and walked to the edge of the platform, drawing the attention of the crowd and challengers both.

When the crowd cheered at the announcement, Sir Lance finally admitted defeat, and he managed to regain his feet before leaving the field with dignity. Shiro admired that, and the crowd applauded in acknowledgement of a match well-fought.

The Red Knight, meanwhile, came towards Shiro with slow, measured steps. He didn’t seem tired or out of breath; it was as if he’d never fought a match at all.

“Red Knight,” Shiro said, focusing on making his voice project more than on the words themselves. Shiro’s heart was pounding rapidly. “You’ve won the final Game, and are the champion of Shirogane. Please remove your helmet--” Shiro paused to swallow, his mouth dry. “--and come forward to accept my hand.”

Shiro held out his silver arm and waited. The crowd was silent and everything was still; even the wind seemed to slow, waiting for the Red Knight’s answer. For several minutes, they waited, while the Red Knight didn’t so much as drop his katar. 

Then, slowly, he did. When the blade crashed into the dirt, he reached up his gauntleted hands to remove his helmet.

He was revealed in pieces, first his dark hair, long enough that Shiro already knew how it felt against his cheek. Then his mouth, familiar in more ways than one.

By the time Shiro saw his nose, he couldn’t hear anything other than a buzzing in his ears. The crowd might have been screaming, his council might have been shouting in his ears, but all he could focus on was the man in front of him, on his familiar defiant expression in the face of the shock of those around him. He let his helmet fall to the ground and didn't move, daring anyone to object.

Keith. The Red Knight was Keith.

Before he realized he’d done it, Shiro dropped his hand.

***

Shiro couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this angry. 

If he’d had to guess, he would’ve come up with a time when he was in captivity, thinking that no one would save him but himself. Back then, the anger had been pure and hot, aimed at the Galra and the world and his own failings; what filled him now was anger that was slick like oil, tainted with betrayal and confusion. It made him feel ill the longer he looked at Keith’s face, and he pressed his hand against his stomach to hold the sensation in.

Keith’s defiant expression faltered, changing to concern and back in a blink, and Shiro was striding down to the field before he knew it.

“Come with me,” he said, voice trembling with the effort to keep from shouting as he grabbed Keith’s elbow and tugged him behind him. He could hear the chatter of the crowd now, the confused whispers as to why Shiro wasn’t following tradition and waiting for the winner to come to him. They wouldn’t be confused for long; if any of the palace staff were among the spectators, the secret of Keith’s identity would be common knowledge soon. 

The explanation, however, was still a mystery, and Shiro cursed the part of him that was curious. 

He didn’t stop pulling Keith behind him until they were well out of earshot, the arena a vast shape in the distance. He dropped his hold but kept walking until they were surrounded by trees and only a truly determined eavesdropper would be close enough to hear them. Shiro didn’t care either way, and when he stopped, he kept his back to Keith and said nothing.

“I told you I had a good reason,” Keith said quietly after only a few seconds, and that, that was too much for Shiro. It was one thing to lie; it was quite another to throw his confidence, his grief, back into his face.

Shiro had looked for Keith, had been prepared to _mourn_ Keith. And the entire time, Keith had kept this secret rather than tell him, had been silently watching him from only an arm's length away.

“You _lied_ to me. You lied to everyone.” Shiro spun around and gestured furiously in the direction of the arena, then the palace. “You made a mockery of our entire culture! The results are invalid now.”

Keith’s expression shuttered, like Shiro’s words had connected with unexpected force.

“Why?” he asked, suddenly all but spitting in anger. His fists were clenched at his sides, hard enough that Shiro could hear the metal grinding against itself. “Because I’m an orphan? Because I’m not good enough for you?”

Shiro laughed without humor. He wanted to shake some sense into him, but it wouldn’t have done any good. Keith would’ve just twisted out of his hold anyway; he knew his weak spots.

“No, because nobody in this country was _ever eligible to begin with_.” Shiro took a deep breath and pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose, trying to find the words to make Keith understand. “As soon as word gets out, every challenger who showed up will demand a rematch. And that’s assuming that they don’t go back to their countries and accuse us of rigging the Games. The entire point of the Royal Games is to provide _unity_.” 

“No, it isn’t,” Keith said through clenched teeth. “The _point_ is to trap you in a marriage with someone who flinches when you try to touch them, when they should be _damn_ grateful for the privilege.”

They both stiffened at the words, neither one of them moving until Keith released a shuddery breath. 

“I couldn’t let that happen, Shiro, and you wouldn’t have said anything. Not even if you were miserable for the rest of your life.”

It was on the tip of his tongue-- _it’s not up to you to save me_ \--but the words wouldn’t come. After all, Keith had saved him before. Keith _did_ save him, every day, just with his presence.

Shiro couldn’t say that either, and he rubbed at his eyes with his palm, trying to find something he could say that wouldn’t ruin them beyond repair.

“I can’t imagine why Princess Allura supported this—”

“She didn’t, not the way you’re thinking,” Keith interrupted. “I _am_ an Altean baron. It’s just…a long story.”

Shiro glared, but it was half-hearted; his anger had already begun to fade, although it would take a long time before it disappeared entirely. 

“If that’s true, it’s a story you should’ve told me weeks ago.”

“I can tell you now,” Keith said, and he did. He talked about the war, and how he'd reacted when Shiro’s old bodyguard was found dead, with Shiro nowhere in sight. He talked about floundering in the remains of the royal household, desperate to do anything to find him again. He talked about how scared everyone was of trying, and he talked about volunteering his services to Altea, the only country with the might and the will to try to get Shiro back. He talked about how his success on the frontlines was mostly an accident, but one Allura had rewarded anyway once the war was over.

All he’d wanted was Shiro back. What he got was Shiro, injured and unconscious, and land and a title that he left behind as soon as Shiro was well enough to make the journey home.

“I didn’t mean to deceive you, not at first,” Keith finished quietly. There was shame in the words. “It just never came up.”

Shiro doubted that; Keith didn’t always get along with most of the palace staff, and it must have taken iron will not to respond to one of their taunts by flaunting his new status. More likely, Keith just hadn’t bothered.

“You still should’ve told me.” Shiro ran his hand through his hair as he processed Keith's explanation, taking note of the places where he'd rushed over the details. It was an incredible story, and one that Shiro would like to hear in full one day, when they weren’t one wrong move from another open war. He hoped he’d still get the chance. “What about everything else? Leaving with...someone, and coming back as the Red Knight.”

 _And talking to me, and comforting me, and kissing my hand, kissing **me**_ , he didn’t say. Keith had played the role of besotted suitor very well, and Shiro didn’t know if he could forget that. Every interaction he'd had with the Red Knight now took on another meaning, every memory now hazy with doubt.

Shiro wished he’d kissed him longer when he’d had the chance; if Keith was tortured by similar thoughts, he didn’t look it.

“I left with Katie Holt because she promised that she’d make me this armor if I escorted her to Altea.” He gestured to himself, to his tunic and plate mail. “It’s lighter than regular armor, and the helmet disguises my voice. I knew I’d never find anything like it here.” Keith paused and looked down at the ground, like he couldn't bear to look Shiro in the eyes. “I competed because you deserved a choice.”

“A choice?”

Keith nodded quickly, his hair sticking to his sweat-soaked neck. “Even though I won, you don’t have to marry me. If you’d rather marry Sir Lance, you can.” Keith said the words like they were painful to him, and for the first time, Shiro wondered if maybe he’d been wrong to think this entire ruse was a lie.

“How would I do that, exactly?” Shiro asked quietly, his eyes fixed firmly on Keith’s face, and this time he saw it: a grimace of pain. It was barely there before it was gone, hidden under a mask of calm, but Shiro recognized it. He’d felt it himself, whenever he’d thought of Keith these past weeks.

How stupid he’d been, not to remember that Keith wore armor even when he wasn’t playing the Red Knight.

“I’ll...I’ll withdraw.” The offer lacked Keith’s usual commitment, but Shiro didn’t doubt he meant it. “You seem to like him well enough.”

Shiro rolled his eyes, but he wasn’t sure if it was more because of the sullen tone or the idea that Shiro might prefer someone else. “I didn’t kiss _him_ in the stables.” 

Keith flushed. Shiro was glad he could see it.

“Well, that’s...good.”

“Did you mean it?”

“Mean what?”

“That you wanted to marry me,” Shiro clarified, finally looking away from his face. “You said, the first night. That you weren’t like the rest, here to marry someone you’d never met.”

“That’s not quite what I said.” Keith began to pull at nonexistent threads on his tunic, clearly flustered. “I told you why I’m here. I told you then.”

“And then you called me handsome,” Shiro reminded him.

That, it seemed, was Keith’s breaking point.

“You _are_ handsome. I can barely look at you sometimes.” He looked at him then, with an expression Shiro had never seen before, awe mixed with longing. “Of course I want to marry you, Shiro. I’ve been in love with you for years.” He looked like it killed him to admit it, or maybe like he was expecting Shiro to finish the job. “I was hoping I could be someone like that for you, but I’m not very good at. Flirting, or anything.”

“You already were that person, Keith,” Shiro said softly, and then he immediately held out his hand.

Keith’s eyes went wide with surprise, realizing the implications immediately but not believing them.

“Really?” He rapidly flicked his gaze between Shiro’s hand and his face.

“Yes. I love you. Stay with me, marry me, be by my side.” His lips twitched. “Heaven knows you’ve been everywhere else.”

Keith, guarding his back. Keith, competing in front of him. Could he have ever ended up anywhere else but at his side? Shiro couldn’t see how.

And, when Keith took his hand, it was clear he couldn’t see it either.

Although there was still much to be discussed and solved, they walked back to the arena, hand-in-hand and side-by-side, prepared to face whatever was waiting for them.

**Author's Note:**

> Come visit me at [my tumblr](http://starticker.tumblr.com/) if you want. All Voltron all the time, which is just the way it should be. ;)


End file.
